by Jon Richter
‘I’m sorry. He didn’t say nuthin’ about losin’ his job. If I knew where he was, I’d tell you, I swear.’
‘Okay, Mr Samson,’ Sigurdsson said, trying to hide his frustration. ‘Good luck at the show tonight. We may need to speak with you again tomorrow. When are you scheduled to travel home?’
‘I’m on a plane out of here come Sunday mornin’.’
‘Okay – well, thank you again for your assistance.’
The call ended, and Sigurdsson immediately dialled Mason.
‘Mason,’ came her familiar answer.
‘It’s Chris,’ he replied. ‘Listen, I just spoke to –’
‘You won’t believe this,’ she interrupted. ‘Giggs has just called me. He’s at the show, keeping an eye on the crowd. Apparently Arn Adams has just walked in.’
*
The fog seethed around them as they sped once again towards Rumours nightclub, and Mason leaned forward as she drove, squinting.
Sigurdsson stared into the swirling mist, thinking once again about jigsaw puzzles. About how you couldn’t solve them with so many missing pieces.
Bill Wheeler.
Vic Valiant’s body.
Arn Adams, the man they were about to apprehend.
He had updated Mason by phone as she had rushed to collect him. Mitchell was also on his way to the club in a separate car, and Giggs had been given strict instructions not to arrest Adams – they couldn’t afford any more controversy in front of the crowd of reporters that had no doubt assembled for the evening show. It occurred to him that Penman was probably relishing the publicity. The plan was to keep tabs on Adams and apprehend him when he left the venue.
The journey was brief, as usual. They dashed through the door of the club, past the same burly bouncer they’d seen twice before. Once again, they had arrived after Howard Penman had already commenced his pre-show spiel, the screens around the bar projecting his fleshy face and polished oratory around the room. Adams was once again seated in the VIP area, where Giggs had also stationed himself in plain clothes. Mason would cover the main nightclub area, with Sigurdsson waiting in the bar, and Mitchell outside to cover the rear fire exit.
Sigurdsson watched as Mason disappeared through the double doors, then took up an innocuous position at the bar and ordered a lemonade. From here he could clearly see what was unfolding on the screens, and was close enough to the VIP entrance to follow or intercept Adams should he emerge. As Penman talked, Sigurdsson allowed his mind to drift, from speculation about what Adams would tell them through to chilling recollections of Tuesday night. Then back to Mason, and how she had looked in the jumper and jeans. About how close they had come to kissing, almost no distance at all…
Music shook him from his daydream, a thumping techno beat that seemed to have interrupted Penman, who pretended to be taken by surprise. It was an unfamiliar tune, but Sigurdsson couldn’t see who was approaching due to the camera angle. Eventually Ethan Blake rolled into the ring, wearing the same title belt he had proudly flaunted in the interview room. This time it was around his waist, so that his hands were free. One was clutching a microphone, and the other was holding something that Sigurdsson couldn’t make out.
‘No, no, don’t go Howard. Please, stick around,’ Blake sneered into the mic. ‘Ethan Blake has something to say to you.’
Penman’s expression was a mixture of bafflement and anger, and Sigurdsson once again had to admit that the man knew how to put on a show. Blake continued his speech, turning to address the crowd.
‘And to the rest of you idiots too!’ A chorus of boos rained down on the champion as he grinned mischievously. He strutted around the ring as he spoke, oozing confidence, wearing nothing but a tiny pair of pink trunks along with his satin jacket. ‘Yes, that’s right, there’s something very important I need to get off my chest.’
He turned to stare pointedly at Penman, removing his shades and tossing them to one side.
‘Howard, I know what you were about to say. You were about to say “forget the rest, ‘cos we’re”…’ He allowed the crowd to finish the catchphrase, mockingly tilting the microphone away from his lips and rolling his eyes as they did so. ‘And because it’s the big finale of your precious Salvation Slam, you were about to introduce The Necromancer, weren’t you?’
Penman didn’t reply.
‘Weren’t you?’ screamed Blake, suddenly right in Penman’s face. The promoter looked visibly shaken, backing away from his champion. The crowd also seemed slightly surprised, a hush falling around the assembled fans.
‘Er… y-yes, Ethan, I was about to announce that tonight, in this very ring –’
Penman reacted as if he was trying to recover the situation, but then Blake knocked the microphone out of his hands and he stared, shocked, into the younger man’s face, eyes widening in fear and bewilderment.
Like the rest of the crowd, Sigurdsson was transfixed.
‘Let me guess – Kevin Samson was going to win, am I right? The big Yankee superstar, swanning over here and just getting a title shot handed to him on a silver fucking plate?’
Some of the crowd booed and a few others applauded, but most of the audience was strangely hushed, confused by this unexpected turn of events.
Penman, emasculated by the loss of his microphone, just nodded dumbly.
‘And, let me guess again… tomorrow, at the final show, he was going to beat me right in the middle of this ring, and Ethan Blake would just lie there like a loser and take the three-count? Hand over the title I won, that I deserve?’
He took off the belt and held it aloft, staring up at it as though hypnotised. Sigurdsson wondered about Blake’s intent – was he simply ‘in character’ here, or did his words have a dual meaning? Had Penman told him he was going to lose tomorrow’s match, and this was his way of rebelling? He remembered just how much the championship had meant to the young wrestler.
‘Well Howard, I decided I had a different idea for tonight’s main event. Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, in this very ring…’ He held aloft the object in his other hand. Sigurdsson squinted at the screen, trying to discern what it was.
A syringe.
‘You will witness the death of Howard Penman!’
Sigurdsson leapt from his seat and barged through the doors.
By the time he crashed into the nightclub, Blake had already grabbed Penman around the throat with one muscular arm, microphone still clutched in his fist as his other hand aimed the needle at Penman’s larynx.
‘Don’t fucking come any closer,’ he spat into the mic, addressing the entire crowd and freezing Sigurdsson in his tracks at the top of the stairs. ‘This needle is full of poison. Liquid strychnine, to be specific – I bought it when I was in Mexico last year. They use it as rat poison over there; you can get it in the supermarket, would you believe? Yes, it’s the same shit that killed Vic Valiant. All of you watched it happen last week, and yet here you are, back again – don’t you people have any fucking respect?’ His face twisted into a diabolical smile as he continued, staring around the faces at ringside. ‘Yeah, you heard me – Ethan Blake killed the great Vic Valiant.’
Sigurdsson gaped. At the same time, another part of his brain worked feverishly to try to figure out how to get Penman out of harm’s way. His eyes scanned the crowd, but Mason was nowhere to be seen.
‘That’s what happens when people try to take my title away. Howard here clearly doesn’t think Ethan Blake has what it takes to be the face of All Action Wrestling any more… do you, Mister Penman?’ He tightened his grip around the promoter’s neck, while his hostage’s eyes bulged in pain and terror. ‘Oh, I was flavour of the month for a while, don’t get me wrong. But since he’s become all pally with the Americans it seems there’s no room for local talent any more. Isn’t that right?’
He gave Penman’s windpipe another vicious squeeze. Sigurdsson had inched his way down the stairs to join the rear of the crowd, wondering how close he coul
d get before attempting to vault the barricade, then dismissing the idea immediately – Blake would plunge the syringe into Penman’s neck before he’d even reached the ring. As he stared at the insanity unfolding before his eyes, his gaze caught Mason’s; she was on the other side of the ring, close to the barrier. Her expression mirrored his own, a look of pure helplessness.
The rest of the crowd seemed unsure whether this was a part of the show. Some were backing away from the ring, while others stared in horrified fascination.
‘Anyway, it’s all a moot point now. I won’t be facing Kevin Samson tomorrow. Because Ethan Blake is retiring as champion. I’m going to take this belt, which I earned, with blood and sweat, and I’m going to walk out of here and never come back. But you, Howard…’ he leaned his mouth closer to Penman’s ear, ‘… you won’t be walking anyw–’
He stopped as more music began to play. This time, Sigurdsson did recognise the song: it was the same haunting cello piece that had accompanied the Necromancer’s entrance the previous Sunday night. But the lights did not fade this time. Instead, the music simply played on, growing in volume and intensity as a sinister robed figure emerged from the backstage area.
The Necromancer was dressed once again in a plain brown smock, but something was different this time; different, yet strangely familiar. He was hunched over, and seemed to be walking with the aid of a wooden cane, as though he had aged horribly in the space of a single week. His face was barely visible beneath the cowl, and Sigurdsson could not make out his expression as he raised a microphone to his mouth.
‘Ethan.’ His tone was soft, but carried a weight that silenced any remaining noise in the audience, and stilled Blake’s hand, hovering at Penman’s jugular. The cello music faded as he continued, his voice like a chisel being driven into a gravestone. ‘Not many things shock me these days, after so many long years… but this is truly an unpleasant surprise. Vic Valiant was many things and committed many misdeeds, but for a man to be poisoned like vermin…’
Drogo. The Necromancer looked just like the island’s adopted saint, as depicted by the statue on the top of the hill.
Blake lifted the microphone as if he was about to protest, but the Necromancer silenced him with a single raised hand.
‘I once considered you a promising disciple, Ethan. But now you have sinned. And do you know what happens to sinners?’
He took an unsteady step towards the ring, leaning heavily on his stick.
‘They are judged.’
He took another faltering step. Blake seemed to recover his courage at that point, and raised his own mic to retort.
‘Oh, yeah? And who’s going to judge me? You, Mance? You look like you can barely even walk!’
The Necromancer continued his ponderous approach to the ring, looking for all the world like some sort of ancient and evil dark sorcerer. His unblinking eyes were fixed on Blake as he shuffled forwards, and his mouth spread slowly into an insidious grin.
‘No, Ethan,’ he replied. ‘You will be judged by a spirit upon whom you have already deigned to pass sentence. Your judgement will come not from this world… but from beyond the grave.’
The next sequence of events were so crazy, and happened so fast, that later Sigurdsson had to confirm everything with Mason to make sure he hadn’t imagined the whole thing. First, the lights went out, plunging the club into darkness. Then Jump by Van Halen began to blare out of the PA system. Sigurdsson darted towards the ring, feeling blindly for its edge and hauling himself under the ropes. He could hear the sounds of scuffling nearby, and a cry from Penman. He fumbled for his torch, and clicked it on to reveal an impossible scene.
Blake was lying on the mat, clutching a wound in his head that was gushing blood onto the canvas. Close by was the Necromancer’s cowl, as well as his cane, its end bloodied. Penman was crawling away from his champion in terror, seemingly unscathed.
Towering above them, perched on the top turnbuckle, was Vic Valiant.
Sigurdsson stared, transfixed, as the dead man poised, ready to leap. He was adjusting something beneath his elbow pad – and Sigurdsson saw that he had placed Blake’s syringe underneath it, so that when he delivered his finishing elbow drop to his killer’s prone body, he would drive the syringe and its vile contents deep into Blake’s black heart.
Jump continued to boom around them, an insane soundtrack to an insane vision.
Valiant leapt. Sigurdsson felt a strange calmness, an absence of terror that he didn’t recognise. Just a slow analysis of the trajectory of Valiant’s fall, his distance from the motionless figure of Blake, the exact path that the needle would take into the champion’s chest. No panic. No fear.
Sigurdsson leapt too, catching the vengeful spirit in mid-air, driving Valiant to the mat and knocking the syringe from his grasp. Sigurdsson’s head smashed into the canvas, and a detached part of him reflected on how much harder it was than he had expected. He staggered woozily to his feet.
The venue’s lights came back on.
Standing in front of him was the Necromancer, dressed as Vic Valiant. He was wearing a long dark wig over his bald head, and the same silver face paint design, a weeping double-V insignia beneath his ice-cold eyes. He wore a singlet and tasselled silver trousers instead of his usual trunks. He would have looked completely ridiculous, except for the snarl of pure rage that twisted his face as he stalked towards Sigurdsson. He had retrieved the syringe and was brandishing it wickedly.
‘You would deny me my revenge??’ he yelled, in a completely different accent from his own, taking another step forwards.
Sigurdsson blinked, his vision swimming, as the crazed wrestler bore down on him. He stepped backwards and his legs buckled beneath him. He fell next to Blake, trapped between two lunatics.
‘Perhaps you will have to join Mr Blake in the netherworld,’ grinned the Necromancer, his bizarre impersonation of Valiant faltering as he raised the syringe.
Sergeant Mitchell barrelled into him at that point, driving the yogi down to the mat, knocking the ludicrous wig from his head. Once again the syringe clattered away, and was this time snatched up by Mason, who had also darted into the ring.
Despite his struggles and contortions, Mitchell and Mason managed to overpower and cuff the wriggling Necromancer, and then radioed for an ambulance.
The last thing Sigurdsson heard, increasing in volume even as he sank down into unconsciousness, was the rapturous applause from the crowd.
A Different Friday
‘This is Mason.’
‘Hello Inspector… or should I call you Detective Inspector now?’
‘Haha, thanks Chris… and what the bloody hell do I call you these days?’
‘Just Chris, for now. I still haven’t figured out what I want to be when I grow up.’
‘I still can’t believe you resigned. Somehow it feels like Wells still won in the end.’
‘I doubt he thinks that. The discrimination charges couldn’t have come at a nicer time… but I don’t think the brass would have been happy with just him as the fall guy. And anyway, I’d decided it was time to leave. I realised that this job… isn’t me.’
‘They’ve given me some more manpower here now. Me and Giggs and Mitchell are just sitting around with our feet up. You should come and visit us.’
‘Maybe I will, one day. Any more progress on finding the body?’
‘Yes, actually. We dredged the bay again and found it, all bloated and rotten. His first wife contacted us and wants to take him back to the States.’
‘So the Necromancer finally told you where it was?’
‘No. He’s been transferred to Lakeside Psychiatric now. He still believes that he’s an actual necromancer, that he raised Schultz from the dead. Whenever we asked him about the theft of the body, how he managed to lug the thing out of the hospital without any help, he would talk about how it was reanimated, like a zombie, and escaped by itself.’
‘Jesus. Did you ever find
out his name?’
‘Nope. His past is still a complete mystery. His house was like something from a movie set, all creepy totems and insignia on the walls and ritual materials everywhere. No identification or anything like that. They searched everywhere, even dug up the yard, but there was no sign of Schultz’s corpse. We just decided to do another sweep of the bay and there it was.’
‘I’m glad you found him. He was a nightmare, but he deserved some peace. Did I tell you I kept his memoirs?’
‘Really? I should charge you with stealing evidence.’
‘I can’t help identifying with him, or at least some parts of him.’
‘Oh yeah? Like what?’
‘Well, like his anxiety attacks. The steroids were a big red herring all along – he was injecting to calm his nerves before his matches.’
‘How is all of that going with you?’
‘It’s weird. After the thing with Tall Paul, the panic attacks just… stopped.’
‘Maybe you made your peace with death, or something?’
‘Yeah, I suppose so. I spent my whole life terrified of it, wondering what it would feel like, how it would happen to me. Then it nearly did happen and the fear just… vanished. I suppose I’m not a frightened rabbit, any more.’
‘Don’t bloody talk to me about those things. One of them got into the station the other day. I thought Mitchell was going to scream the place down…I still can’t believe Dixon tried to kill you, just to keep his sexuality a secret. It’s sad.’
‘It is sad. Schultz too… I suppose for him it would have been career suicide, coming out in the eighties. I know the world has changed since then, but it still has a long way to go.’
‘Yeah.’
‘What about Blake and Adams?’
‘Last I heard Adams was back in the States, being treated for depression. Apparently he couldn’t cope with losing his job at the SWA, but never admitted that he was here to hurt Schultz. There was nothing for us to charge him with. Blake’s still being held in Bristol – I think they’re struggling to decide whether he belongs in Lakeside too.’